


i'm not even sure it was good while it lasted

by poppyseedheart (hockeycaptains)



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: 18 Months Is A Long Time - freeform, Alternate Universe, Angst, Crimes & Criminals, Gen, Law Enforcement, Minor Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-13 12:04:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11759481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hockeycaptains/pseuds/poppyseedheart
Summary: He ends up riding shotgun at 6:30am with Collins on what is “A recon-only mission, don’t go getting any ideas.”“If I can bring him in, I’m gonna do it,” answers Michael cheerfully, “and honestly, Treyco, I’m preeeeetty sure you won’t try to stop me.”





	i'm not even sure it was good while it lasted

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I'm here with a new fic. Huge love to Katy for the cheerleading, and to her and Brenna both for the beta. They're the dream team, this is better for their input, & I'm a lucky gal to have their help & support.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Geoff and his team get the assignment on a Wednesday morning. Hullum calls them in for 11:30, so Geoff tells Jack to be there at 11:15 and picks up Michael at his desk on the way over without bothering to warn him. Kid’s always got his nose in one case or another anyway, so there’s no point trying to schedule when he’s busy without sustaining a headache arguing over what’s more pressing.

“But Geoff,” Michael whines predictably, “I’m so close on this one. You guys can do the meeting and brief me after. Seriously, I just need like, two hours and I’ll have this asshole’s location pinned down so hard he’ll look like a fucking dead butterfly.”

Geoff pretends to consider it for a moment, then rolls his eyes and drags Michael out of the chair by his collar. “Bossman says this is an important briefing, wants us all there. Also, your metaphors could use some work.”

“Similes,” corrects Jack from behind them as he walks up.

“Can it, Pattillo. What’s the number one rule in this office?”

“No arguing semantics,” recites Michael dutifully. 

Geoff snaps, points at him. “Exactly. I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

Michael flips him off, but he’s smiling as he does so. A year under Geoff’s supervision has done him good, and Geoff isn’t the only one who thinks so. When he first got hired, Michael was on a kind of probationary trial run, and his initial placement in the tech department as a handler went less than smoothly. After the third time a shouting match with Burnie got him sent home early, Geoff took the kid under his wing, eventually poaching him for field work and learning that Michael has a hell of a shot on him, as well as an impressive balance between self-preservation and fearlessness. You can’t teach instinct, and Michael’s is rock solid, not to mention how well he takes direction once you figure out the right way to give it to him.

The three of them have officially been a team for ten months now, with plenty of practice before that as a team of four, and they walk into the briefing room with a practiced ease. Matt’s waiting for them, Lindsay at his side. “To what do we owe the pleasure?” asks Geoff.

Matt gets straight down to business, pulling up a slide on the projector that just has a set of coordinates not far from the office. “Three targets. High profile. We need you to bring them in, alive and ideally unharmed.”

Geoff nods. “Easy enough. Who are they?”

Matt clicks to the next slide: three names, three pictures.

Geoff’s heart drops to his stomach. 

/

“Alpha to Bravo, I could use some cover fire!” Gavin ducks back down as a bullet grazes his shoulder, just barely close enough to draw blood. He’s vastly outnumbered down here. “Hello?” 

A pause. “Which one of us is Bravo?”

A grenade lands at Gavin’s feet, and he chucks it back over the crates he’s using as cover just before it detonates. “You, Jeremy! Bloody hell, what’re you even doing up there? You started this gang fight and you can’t even be bothered to finish it?”

“Oh,” says Jeremy, sheepish, “yeah, my bad.” He rains down bullets near where the gang is huddled, and Gavin takes the opportunity to head for the door at a dead sprint. “There you go, pal. You got the coke, right?”

“Um,” says Gavin.

There’s a sigh on the other end of the comms, long-suffering. “I’ve got it,” says Ryan. “Now come on, both of you, I’m in the car and we’re gonna be late to the drop.”

Gavin careens around the corner in time to see Jeremy clamber into the passenger seat. Gavin doesn’t bother with the backseat, instead yanking the boot open and diving in while yelling, “Go, go, go!”

“What the fuck!” yells Ryan right back. “You’re gonna get eviscerated back there, Jesus.”

Gavin is already climbing through to the backseat, though, and shutting the panel tightly behind him so no one gets riddled with bullets from behind. “I appreciate the concern, lovely Ryan, but this isn’t my first rodeo.” He pulls out his comm and relaxes, barely even flinching when Ryan makes a hard turn and Gavin ends up plastered against the inside of the rightmost door, his own elbow digging into his stomach.

Ryan mutters something to himself, most likely about Gavin. It doesn’t sound flattering.

Gavin just laughs, grabs onto the door handle, and enjoys the ride.

/

Michael loses track of the mark around 3pm, which pisses him off to no end. He’s told Geoff he’s not cut out for this espionage bullshit, but an assignment’s an assignment, and it’d been easy enough to keep an eye on the guy until he disappeared out of what Michael assumes was the back door of a bar. He’d wasted a stupid amount of time nursing a drink in the corner before realizing that his mark never came back from the bathroom, and by that point it was too late to spot him outside before he was gone.

He walks home slowly, hands shoved in his pockets, trying to figure out what he’s gonna tell Geoff when he has to explain how he lost a criminal this high profile. It’s a rookie mistake, really. He takes the long route just in case, checking his shoulder, but there’s no one behind him, and all it does is give him more time to berate himself.

He’s so wrapped up in thinking about his own obliviousness that he fails to notice the figure sitting on his doorstep until he’s just a few steps away. He just stands at the bottom of the stairs like a moron, watching his mark stand up and brush of his jeans.

“Hiya,” says Jeremy Dooley, currently wanted in every state in the goddamn country. “Just as a friendly FYI, one of my buddies has a sniper rifle trained on the back of your head right now, so you probably should keep your hands where we can see ‘em.” His tone is genial, even friendly, but not warm.

Michael forces himself not to reach for his gun. This could get ugly, but he’s not about to exacerbate the situation without figuring out his options first. Hell, maybe they can keep things civil. “Where’s that accent from?” he asks. “East coast?”

Dooley raises his eyebrows. “Boston,” he answers.

“Oh, cool,” says Michael, “I’m from Jersey.”

Dooley grins, this time more genuine and less like he’s baring his teeth before going in for the kill. “Yeah, I know.”

Michael blinks. “What?” 

“I’m kind of a fan,” says Dooley, posture still relaxed. “I was training to be a cop before I went crooked, dug up some information on big name cops in the area. Found your parents, then you. You went up the ranks really fucking fast, dude.”

Of everything he was expecting to get out of this conversation, finding out he’s admired by a guy with at least six grand theft auto charges amongst a whole host of other less savory crimes was not on the list. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for a cop,” is all Michael can think of to say, “what with the killing and all.” Dooley doesn’t answer right away, so Michael pushes his luck. “What made you switch sides?”

Dooley looks at Michael appraisingly, seems to find something in the set of his shoulders. Michael, frustratingly, can’t read him. “I mean,” he says, conversational, “you’ve met Gavin.”

Michael tries very hard not to visibly stiffen, isn’t sure it works. Before this mission, it had been a long, long time since he’d had to face this particular part of his past. “So why’re you here?” Not his smoothest subject change, but it’ll do.

“Well,” says Dooley, entire demeanor shifting back into coolness, “the thing is, I really don’t like being followed. So I figured I’d pay a home visit,” continues Dooley. “Send a message, you know how it goes. ‘I know where you live,’ or whatever. Plus…” He pauses and tilts his head like he’s listening to something, probably an ear piece. “Ryan? If you will?”

Before he can even think to turn around, Michael feels two sharp pricks of pain in his back. His cry is choked, cut off as the taser electrocutes him, dropping him hard to his knees as all of his muscles clench and unclench over and over, throat so tight he can barely breathe.

It ends as suddenly as it began, and Michael gasps a breath. His teeth had caught the inside of his cheek, and he spits blood onto the sidewalk, entire body still trembling. 

There’s a very loud part of him that wants to get up and charge the second he feels up to it, but he knows it would be a bad idea. This group of criminals is unique, to say the least, but that doesn’t mean Michael thinks they’ll hesitate to put him down if they feel threatened, especially if that’s Haywood behind him holding the taser.

Dooley squats down in front of Michael. Michael peers up at him through squinted eyes, jaw still tight, teeth gritted. He looks like a smug prick, and Michael is sore, tired. Wants to be left alone if he can’t bring them all into the office himself.

“You made your point,” says Michael.

Dooley smiles. “Hit him again.”

There’s no time to protest. Michael’s entire body convulses a second time. He remembers dimly from his training that each subsequent charge is longer than the first, but it’s hard not to panic when it keeps going long after it felt like it should have stopped. 

He scrapes his palms raw against the cement, and this time when it stops he doesn’t move, just sags where he is. He feels Dooley grabbing something from his pocket, and tries to make a move to stop him, but his muscles are useless, numb.

“Stay down or you get shocked again.” Dooley holds up the cell phone, probably showing Haywood. “We’re not gonna keep this,” says Dooley, “because it’ll be tracked, but I feel bad leaving him like this.”

“What,” asks Haywood, wry, “you gonna nurse him back to health?”

Dooley laughs. “I’d be a horrible doctor. Nah, I’m gonna call one of his buddies and then we’re gonna haul ass.”

It’s Michael’s personal phone, not his work phone—wrong pocket, he thinks—and that’s dangerous, makes him nervous. 

“Ooooh,” sing-songs Dooley, “this name has a heart next to it. Let’s give it a call.”

 _Thank God_ , thinks Michael. He twitches against the ground, anxiety rising the longer he lies prone like this, but his muscles still won’t cooperate. Dooley makes the call, and it’s a short one, and Michael immediately feels better knowing Lindsay is on her way. It’s embarrassing as shit, sure, but the longer he has to lie here by himself the higher chance there is that someone he’s convicted in the past walks by and decides to fuck him up.

Dooley walks off with a jaunty goodbye, leaving the phone on the ground a few feet away. Haywood stays for a second, though, before leaving. “If you follow us,” he says, “your head gets blown off. We still have eyes on you.”

“He wouldn’t,” spits back Michael, because it isn’t hard to put the pieces together, and it’s been a while but he still knows Gavin. He doesn’t get up, though, and he doesn’t follow.

Dooley and Haywood disappear down the street and into an ostentatious purple and orange car. Michael mentally files the details away as best he can, and then settles to wait.

Lindsay turns the corner a few minutes later, stopping so abruptly she burns rubber. Once she gets out of the car, she sees something on Michael—his gaze drifting to where he thinks the sniper is, he assumes—and turns on her heel, firing at the top of a building across the street.

“Wait,” says some helpless part of Michael. “Lindsay, hold on.”

“What?” bites out Lindsay.

Michael props himself up on one arm, ignoring the sharp pains in his back. “That’s Gavin.” A pause. “We need him alive,” continues Michael lamely. “He’s not gonna shoot, c’mon, just help me up.”

Lindsay huffs in frustration before acquiescing, getting an arm under Michael and tugging him up. She helps him walk to the door, and unlocks it for him. After depositing him facedown on the couch, she makes her way to the bathroom, probably grabbing a first aid kit. She knows his apartment almost better than he does. It sucks, actually, that this place is compromised now, because he’d been planning to ask her to move in next week.

She comes back with the kit and a warm washcloth. “You’re stupid,” she says, and then pulls out the prongs.

Michael doesn’t even flinch. Not through that part, not when she wipes the blood from his face and hands, and not even when she starts to stitch up the cut at his temple.

“You need to be more careful,” she says when she’s finished, and he looks up at her through the mop of his hair. He would argue her point, but she isn’t wrong.

/

Gavin gets back to the house almost an hour after Ryan and Jeremy do. Ryan notices, before anything else, the quiet of Gavin’s energy. Where there’s usually some kind of manic drive lighting him up, now Gavin looks tired, worn down.

“Good work, boys,” Gavin says, but even that’s lackluster.

“You alright, dude?” asks Jeremy.

Gavin sighs, then straightens. “Of course,” he says. “Gonna have a quick kip, then get to work on the next hack.”

Jeremy looks like he wants to ask again, so Ryan steps in. “Sounds good.” 

Gavin shoots him a grateful look, and Ryan inclines his head, just a little. Jeremy is good at caring, but Ryan and Gavin have been doing this together since before Jeremy even quit trying to be a cop. They’ve spent a lot of time being quiet around each other, and that means Ryan can read almost every micro-expression that Gavin makes. It’s not an accident that two personalities on opposite sides of the spectrum have managed to tolerate each other for this long.

Gavin goes upstairs, and Ryan turns to Jeremy. There’s still an itch under his skin, the same desire to fuck shit up that got him into this business in the first place. “Wanna rob a convenience store?”

“Fuck yes,” answers Jeremy.

/

Jack finds Dooley and Haywood almost by accident. He’d just wanted to grab a coke before heading back into the office and trying to piece together more of the security footage from the trio’s last bank heist. Instead, he almost walks into a stickup, just barely managing to stop himself from entering the store.

They aren’t even wearing masks, so of course Jack recognizes them right away. He pulls out his phone right away and sends Geoff the address with an emergency tag so it’s first priority.

Inside the store, Dooley whoops with excitement, and Haywood grins, roguish, as the cashier cowers behind the till.

Crazy bastards.

Geoff pings back an “ _on my way_ ,” and Jack takes some pictures from his vantage point outside. While he’s waiting, he figures he might as well try to make this easier, so he finds what he assumes to be the getaway vehicle (an obnoxiously shiny motorcycle, black and sleek and glossy), and grabs the keys from where they’d literally been left in the ignition.

Crazy, _cocky_ bastards.

Geoff pulls up just a couple minutes later, gun tucked haphazardly into his waistband like he’d run over as soon as he got the text, which is likely. “What’s the play?”

Jack shrugs. “I stole their keys, figured we could grab ‘em out here.”

Geoff grins suddenly. “I have a plan.” It’s an expression that promises chaos, which rarely comes without success in Geoff’s world. Jack resolves to follow his lead.

They don’t have to wait long for the marks to finish up. As they run out, Geoff tugs Jack to hide behind their car, peering out from behind it as Geoff roots around in the backseat for something. Dooley and Haywood walk to the bike, then start arguing about the keys.

“Should we detain them now?” asks Jack, low.

Geoff leans around the side of the car, too. “Nah,” he says, “I got this,” and then he pulls out a blowgun and shoots a dart cleanly into Haywood’s hand. He drops like a stone in seconds, unconscious, and Dooley looks around almost comically, startled, before a dart in his thigh drops him too.

“Jesus,” says Jack. “Is that an approved weapon?”

“It’s a weapon that’s helping us bring in two thirds of our mission,” answers Geoff, and they both know he won’t get in trouble for it.

They wave off the police that have started to arrive by flashing their badges, then put Haywood and Dooley in the back of the armored car, handcuffing them and locking it up.

“That was surprisingly easy,” says Jack as he slides into the passenger seat.

Geoff sighs. “They’re good, but reckless. The hard part is gonna be getting to, uh, Free.” 

The hesitation doesn’t go unnoticed, but Jack doesn’t call Geoff out on it. Bringing in Gavin will be hard on all of them, but that’s what they do. They put aside personal biases and hurts and pasts and they get out there and do their job to make the country that little bit safer. 

It’s a heavy weight to carry, but they carry it all the same.

Geoff flips the indicator and pulls into the detainment division, and Jack gets ready to present his credentials at the gate.

/

Jeremy wakes up in a holding cell and groans, long and loud and dramatic. “Ryan, you in here?” he calls. He’s not chained to anything, but being by himself in the cramped cell is making him jumpy. It’s only manageable to have claustrophobia as a criminal as long as you don’t get caught.

Luckily, he gets an answer right away. “Oh, hey, you’re awake.” Ryan’s voice comes from the cell adjacent to Jeremy’s on the right side, and Jeremy relaxes a little.

“Yup,” he answers. “How long since we got snatched?”

“No idea,” says Ryan. “That tranquilizer must have been powerful. I didn’t wake up until I was already in here, and it’s not like there’s a clock or anything. Also, they took my knives.”

He sounds like he’s pouting. Jeremy reaches for his concealed weapons, but he doesn’t need to pat himself down to know they’re all gone. The weight’s off balance, and he frowns, too. “Well this sucks.”

“Yup,” says Ryan. “You wanna strategize?”

Jeremy thinks about it, then shrugs. They’re being monitored anyway. “Nah.” 

“Wanna play an improv game?”

“Maybe,” says Jeremy. “You know any?”

Ryan scoffs. “I was a theater kid, if you’ll recall. I know plenty.”

“Alrighty then,” answers Jeremy. “Lay ‘em on me, Haywood.”

/

Michael is offered the pleasure of doing the intake interviews for Haywood and Dooley, but he declines. It would be fun, sure, but Lindsay accidentally let it slip that they might have a lead on Gavin, and like hell Michael’s gonna pass that up, especially knowing Geoff and Jack and the enormous fucking soft spot they both have for the traitor.

He ends up riding shotgun at 6:30am with Collins on what is “A recon-only mission, don’t go getting any ideas.”

“If I can bring him in, I’m gonna do it,” answers Michael cheerfully, “and honestly, Treyco, I’m preeeeetty sure you won’t try to stop me.”

Collins sighs. “We already had to move you to emergency housing. You’re on thin ice with Hullum.”

Michael waves a hand dismissively. “I won’t do anything shady,” he promises. “And even if I did, it wouldn’t be anything that would get you in trouble. Okay?”

They pull up to the curb next to an apartment building, rather nondescript, and Collins just shoots him an exasperated look before getting out of the car. He didn’t look upset though—amused, possibly—so Michael will count it as a win either way.

It’s started to pour since they left the base, rain slapping against the pavement, and Michael turns up the collar of his shirt, ducking under it as best he can as they enter the building. Trevor sweet talks the receptionist into letting them up—if they’d needed to use their badges, they could’ve, but it’s always easier when the civilians around haven’t been alerted to anything. No need to raise alarm when they don’t have to.

In the elevator on the way up, Michael hums along to the music.

The penthouse is on the nineteenth floor. They’d needed a key to even go up that high, but someone back at HQ (Steffie, probably) hacked in already and gave them access. By their intel, the place will likely be empty, which is perfect for scouting it out and maybe leaving a bug or two.

Michael spots a framed photograph on the table in the entryway: droplets of paint splashing and frozen in mid-air, likely taken with a high speed camera. Pretty, but impersonal.

He huffs a laugh, mirthless. This is definitely Gavin’s place.

Trevor slips on some gloves to pick up the documents strewn across the kitchen counter, taking photographs before painstakingly replacing them. It’s important that nothing look like it’s been disturbed; otherwise, this mission gets compromised, and Gavin will probably go off the grid. He’s good at that. Bastard.

Michael heads to the bedroom next, but freezes when he gets to the doorway.

Their intel was wrong.

A tuft of brown hair is sticking up above the covers, one socked foot sticking out the bottom. Michael remembers that Gavin’s always been a restless sleeper from the stakeouts they’d done together. He waves over Collins, then pulls out his gun and trains it on the figure on the bed. Gavin’s restless, but he’s a light sleeper, too. Might have been awake this whole time. It could be disastrous for either of them to let their guard down while they’re in here.

Michael looks to Collins. Collins mouths _Wake him up._

Michael shrugs jerkily, turns his attention back to the bed. “Hey,” he says loudly, “hands where I can see them.”

The figure startles, blankets disrupted, and Gavin jolts awake, eyes blinking and wide and confused. It looks like he hadn’t been expecting them, but Michael knows better than to trust Gavin’s face.

“Hands up,” he repeats.

Gavin puts his hands up slowly. They’re empty. “Michael?” he asks, still blinking like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing.

“Get up,” he says, “slowly. No sudden moves, I swear to god.” He can hear himself hitting that edge between firmness and hysteria.

He’d thought when he finally faced Gavin again it would be on the opposite side of a firefight. That it would be easy to take all of the residual anger and stay focused, stay to task. He didn’t think he’d be prodding Gavin out of his own bed, sleepy and rumpled and young looking. Gavin has killed people, stolen things, broken all their hearts… it’s just hard to remember that right now.

Collins, like he can tell, takes the reins from there.

/

The handcuffs are tight on his wrists, the cold metal biting against the thin skin covering his bones, but he doesn’t mention it. It wouldn’t do any good to, and it’s easier to just not think about it.

The leather of the seat is cold, too, through his thin t-shirt, which is half soaked through with rain.

There’s a world, maybe, where Gavin has an excuse for letting himself get so complacent, but it’s not this one. He’d just felt a bit crap after Jeremy and Ryan had gotten caught, and figured he could use a day or two off before getting into planning mode. It’s hard enough that his old team had been assigned to him, and harder still that he had to wake up to Michael pointing a gun at his head.

If he knows how to do anything, though, it’s to shift situations back onto his own terms, even if he started on his heels.

“Are you lot still in the same office?” asks Gavin. He’s been given the cold shoulder every time he’s tried, but maybe if he’s friendly they’ll have a harder time treating him like an animal the way they do the other targets, and it never hurts to get some more intel. “Who got my desk? Was it this tall stranger? Does he know about the button on the back that-“

“Shut up,” says Michael.

If Gavin peers over the back of his seat, he can see Michael’s knuckles go white on the steering wheel.

“I’m just saying,” says Gavin, “that I’ve missed a lot, you know. Would be nice to catch up a bit, maybe-“

Michael cuts him off again. “I don’t think you get how this works. You’re a criminal. We bring you in, we interrogate you, we throw you behind bars. Don’t tell me you forgot already.”

The end of his voice goes cruel there, or tries to. Michael never was all that good at keeping his feelings in check, or putting up a front. Gavin sees the knife and twists it, tries not to let it be desperate. There’s something bubbling up in his chest and he shoves it down ruthlessly, too sharp. “How could I forget, boi? Y’know, I heard a rumor you and the rest of the team were useless after I left. Thought it was pretty funny, right, since you always said I was the weakest link, that you needed to look out for me, all that. I thought I’d die on the job when I first started, honestly, with all the guns and that. Guess I proved us both wrong, didn’t I?”

There’s some silence, then-

“Michael,” warns New Tall Agent quietly.

Michael huffs. His shoulders are tense. Gavin shuts his eyes, waits. Hopes for something stupid, maybe, or anything at all.

The divider between the front and back seats slowly slides up, whirring the whole way, until it leaves Gavin in silence. He slumps against the seat, pulls his knees to his chest, and watches the street fly by through the window.

/

Geoff is the one to debrief Michael after all three targets have been brought in. 

The kid doesn’t look triumphant or excited; instead, he’s practically shaking in his seat, jaw clenched and gaze set straight ahead.

This is gonna be fun.

“You trying to stare a hole through that wall?” asks Geoff. Lord knows one of them needs to be the patient one in this conversation, and it’s not gonna be Michael.

Sure enough, Michael just rolls his eyes. “Free is in custody,” he says, terse.

“Yup,” answers Geoff placidly. “From my understanding, it was pretty straightforward. He didn’t even try to fight back. So why’re you sitting here looking like he killed your dog?”

“I don’t have a dog.”

“Michael,” says Geoff, still gentle, still firm, still determined to get to the root of this, “what happened?”

Michael sighs, and it’s like the tension drains out of him, leaving exhaustion and world-weariness that looks out of place on someone under the age of thirty. “This is off the record,” he says. “I just- need this to be off the record. Okay?”

Geoff nods warily.

“He’s not sorry he left,” continues Michael, sounding frustrated—with Gavin or with himself or with the situation, Geoff can’t tell. “He was taunting me in the car, talking about how we were torn up when he bailed on us. I pulled a gun on him this morning, and the first thing I thought was maybe I could get him to come back if I played my cards right, which- insane, right? He’s a fucking criminal. I cuffed him myself. So why do I still wish-“

He cuts himself off, visibly rattled, and Geoff wishes they’d had this conversation somewhere it wouldn’t be recorded. Geoff will do his best to keep this off the record, but there are still cameras. Nothing that goes down in HQ can ever be entirely private.

Geoff pulls up the chair across from Michael and sits down. “Look,” he starts slowly, “it’s been a year and a half. That’s a lifetime and it’s a drop in the bucket. You think grief makes sense?”

“Grief?” asks Michael.

“You didn’t grieve him?” returns Geoff.

Michael is quiet, because they both know he did. They all did.

Geoff rubs at his forehead. “Ghosts aren’t supposed to come back from the dead after you bury them.”

Michael doesn’t have anything to say to that, either.

/

They don’t let him see Gavin. It’s unsurprising, and Ryan had mostly asked just to see what they would say, but he can’t help but feel a little disappointed anyway. The agent that broke the news had red hair and a surprisingly easy smile; she almost looked sympathetic, and it put Ryan on high alert, like she was trying to trick him into something, into giving himself away.

She’s the one that does his intake, hair tied up in a bun, and introduces herself as “Agent Tuggey, graduated top of my class. I just have a few questions for you.”

“Did you really graduate top of your class?” asks Ryan.

Agent Tuggey grins, quicker and sharper than he’d expected her to. “Nah. Close enough that I can get away with saying that, though.” 

Ryan considers this. “Are you as good as Geoff?” Maybe he can pit them against each other somehow, or at least glean some information from the situation. If he can tap into some kind of professional jealousy… he never promised to be a good person, and he’ll do what he can to protect his team. 

Tuggey laughs, though, twirling her taser in her hand jovially. “I’m his boss.” Everything about her begs to be underestimated, so Ryan keeps his wits about him. 

“So, questions?” he asks.

She sits down across from him, posture loose and easy. Ryan is very aware of the fact that his hands are cuffed. 

Her head tilts, appraising. “You steal and distribute drugs. Who are your buyers?”

She’s gutsy, Ryan has to give her that. “Where’s your proof?” he counters.

“Not my division,” she answers blithely. “Where’s your safe house?”

Ryan doesn’t reply, just looks at her. Maybe he can wait her out. He doubts this team will resort to violence, and he wouldn’t give anything up that way regardless. Patience, he thinks, is the way to go.

“Alright,” says Agent Tuggey. “We’ll give you some time, then. Thanks for the chat. See you soon.”

She saunters out, seemingly unbothered, and Ryan wonders what comes next.

“Jeremy?” he calls absently.

Silence.

Okay, thinks Ryan. He can wait.

/

“How’d it go?” asks Michael.

Lindsay’s face doesn’t give much away. She’s always closed off like this at work when she interacts with detainees; her charm turns cold, her charisma careful and calculated. It’s almost unsettling to see her like this when she’s usually so open and vibrant, but Michael understands the job, and he knows Lindsay. “I don’t think he’ll crack,” she says, “but Dooley will.”

Michael raises his eyebrows. “You think?”

Lindsay nods. “Eventually. He’s like you, a little.”

“Um,” says Michael, “what?” It’s impossible not to bristle at the implication.

Lindsay’s patient, though, and sure of herself. “You have a lot to lose,” she says. “And you care about people. Plus, you get bored easily. It makes you easy to lean on.”

“Sounds like you’ve thought about it,” he answers, mostly so he doesn’t show any more of his cards, even if it seems like she’s got them all laid out in front of her anyway. Privately, he doesn’t think he’d be easy to interrogate, but arguing here won’t get him anywhere, and this shouldn’t be something he has to worry about. “What about Free?”

Lindsay looks at Michael like she can see right through him, but she doesn’t say anything. He appreciates the kindness. “Geoff requested to lead his questioning. They’ll start in a couple days, I think.”

Huh, thinks Michael. Not unexpected, but still not easy to swallow.

“You should get some rest,” he tells Lindsay.

 

She hums, tacit agreement. “You, too,” she says as she’s leaving the room.

 _I should_ , thinks Michael, but instead he sits back down at his computer. He’d been poring over security tapes from Gavin’s apartment before she came in. This is usually more Andy’s job, but Michael, if he’s being honest, doesn’t trust anyone that’s not himself to be thorough enough. They can’t miss anything.

He spends the next three hours staring at footage, begging for something important to happen, something that will help him understand, and only leaves when Jack comes in and gently kicks him out of the office.

/

Gavin’s too smart for them, so they don’t let him sleep.

Geoff doesn’t feel good about it, but they need to take away his edge, and this is the easiest way to do so. There’s a rotating cast of people going in and out of his cell, and the lights flash when no one’s in there. They’ll start feeding music in tomorrow night, but for now they’re trying to get away with it without clueing him in. Gavin has been sitting alone in the interrogation room for almost four hours now. Aside from being fidgety, he hasn’t done much of anything.

Geoff feels a presence behind him, doesn’t turn around.

“How’s it going?” It’s Jack’s voice, unsurprisingly.

“Not sure yet,” says Geoff.

Through the observation window, he can see Gavin’s ragged appearance. He knows what Gavin’s like when he’s tired—he’s not a kid anymore, but Geoff remembers when he was. Remembers waking up and finding Gavin nursing a cup of coffee in the living room, legs curled up on the couch, hair and clothes rumpled. Those years with Gavin living in his house were the first time Geoff ever really felt settled in his skin, his home, his life.

Nothing’s been quite right since Gavin up and left, which is fucking unfair in a way that’s hard to pin down.

Now, Gavin looks like he’s trying very, very hard to look bored. He’s doing a pretty good job at it, too. Geoff pinches the bridge of his nose.

“He’ll crack,” assures Jack.

 _That’s what I’m afraid of_ , Geoff doesn’t say.

/

Jeremy has given up three fake safe-houses so far, and two burner cell phone numbers whose owners are in dumpsters on opposite sides of the city. It’s fun because he knows they have to check them, just in case, and also because he’s _bored_. No one warned him that getting caught would be so mind-numbingly dull.

Ryan warned him months ago to keep to himself in interrogations. To not give anything away, real or otherwise.

Where’s the fun in that, though?

/

Miles away, Meg’s phone rings while she’s in the middle of sewing.

“Hello?” she answers, needle between her teeth muffling it a bit.

On the other end of the line, someone gives a spiel about law enforcement and whether she’s connected to Gavin Free, Jeremy Dooley, or Ryan Haywood, all wanted criminals. They’re dangerous, she’s told, and any information she can provide on their whereabouts or contacts would be vital.

Meg rolls her eyes. She’s surrounded by pieces of a cosplay set for the con she’s going to next weekend, and she really doesn’t have time for this.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “I think you have the wrong number.”

They go through yet another set of protocols, and give her a line to call if she ends up with any information. _Blah, blah, blah_ , she thinks. Like she doesn’t already know.

“You can also come into the office if that would feel safer,” the agent tells her, his tone low, friendly.

“Thanks,” says Meg, “and have a good day. Goodbye.”

She turns back to her sewing. She and Jon aren’t getting together until tomorrow morning to finish planning. Gavin’s flash drive, left with her and compiled with resources in case of this very instance, is sitting in the bottom of her purse, and she’s got a few tricks up her sleeve.

Looks like she will be taking them up on that offer to visit, after all. She hopes they don’t mind if she brings a gun or three.

/

Geoff isn’t supposed to go off script. Gavin knows this, because Gavin used to be in that position, too, and you never go off script unless you’re Jack and you know exactly what you’re doing. “Listen,” Geoff starts, hands twitching as he talks, “this doesn’t have to end with life in prison.”

Gavin’s careful to make sure his expression doesn’t change at all. He’s surprised, though, and more than a little curious. He’d been expecting an interrogation, no holds barred - not a proposition. “What’s your pitch?”

Geoff looks older than the last time Gavin saw him. Weighed down.

“We could use you. You know how to do this already. You were one of our best.”

“You don’t trust me,” answers Gavin, way too fast, reckless, stupid. Some small part of him had thought _you shouldn’t trust me_ and it threw him back on his heels.

Geoff’s eyebrow ticks. “Ball’s in your court, buddy.”

Gavin swallows. It takes more out of him than he thought it would to turn his eyes soft, wide, doe-like, but he does it. “You mean that?” he asks, and the way his heart squeezes hard in his chest isn’t a ruse. It’s the exhaustion getting to him, he knows. They haven’t let him sleep in two days, going on three, and it’s getting harder to keep his walls up no matter how much practice he has in doing so.

“Of course,” answers Geoff, and for one wavering moment of weakness Gavin wants to say yes. It would be easy, he thinks. He could barter for Jeremy and Ryan to get reduced sentences, or for them to be let go altogether. Gavin’s never been much for martyring himself, but he could get away with it, he thinks. It would make sense to an outsider.

He chose, though.

He chose a long time ago.

Before he gets to answer Geoff, he hears an explosion rock the building, and his shoulders drop, tension starting to leak out of them. His hands are still shaking, but the relief pours through his body like cold water. “Thank Christ,” he murmurs.

Geoff snaps to attention. He looks thrown off, but not shocked. Gavin doesn’t have the right to be hurt by that anymore. He looks at Gavin for a second, hard.

“Better go check on that,” answers Gavin evenly.

Geoff doesn’t say anything as he leaves, slamming the door behind him, and Gavin sags, resting his head on the backs of his hands where they’re flat on the table. He could fall asleep like this. He won’t, because he still needs to actually be extracted, but it would be rather nice to sneak in a quick nap.

He loses a bit of time resting there, so it could be minutes or hours later when the door busts open. “You don’t look too hot.”

“Risemonger,” cheers Gavin blearily, picking up his head. “Never thought I’d be so happy to see you.”

Jon rolls his eyes, grinning. He looks ridiculous in his outfit, all black complete with a beanie and eye-black under his eyes. He’s wearing leather gloves. It’s absurd. “You love me really. Let’s get you out of these.” He gestures toward the handcuffs.

Gavin lifts up his hands. “Turney here?” 

“Yup,” answers Jon. “She’s dealing with your buddies. They’re pissed, but they’re also not carrying anything lethal. Amateurish, if you ask me.” He fiddles with the cuffs as he talks, and after a few seconds they snap cleanly off of his wrists, popping open. Meg would’ve just cut them off with a laser, but Jon takes pride in the little things like this, and Gavin’s not particularly in a rush.

Jon hands Gavin a pistol, which Gavin tucks into his waistband. Helpful, sure, but not his first choice of weapon.

They head into the hallway, only to skid to a stop.

Michael’s standing there, pointing a stun gun at the two of them. It crackles when he charges it. “Don’t move,” he says.

Jon laughs. “For real?” He points his handgun at Michael and gestures to the side. “How about you get out of our way and I don’t blow your head off?”

Michael snarls, and Jon’s hand tightens.

Gavin knows what Michael looks like when he’s thinking about doing something reckless. What Jon looks like when he won’t hesitate to pull the trigger.

“Move, boi,” says Gavin. “We’re leaving. No one needs to get hurt.”

“That’s fucking _rich_ ,” spits Michael, “coming from you.” There’s a pause, and Gavin’s system floods with adrenaline. He knows where his loyalties lie, but this-

Two years ago, he fell asleep on Michael’s couch after a night of Mario Kart, the entire affair kickstarted by some stupid wager that neither could remember by the end of the night. He woke up with a blanket laid over him, and his phone was on the coffee table instead of on the floor. There was a Post-It on his forehead that said _Pay attention to what you’re doing, asshole. I could’ve been a murderer._

It was a stupid note considering that Michael and Gavin both were literal FBI agents, but the concern was real even if it was coarse, and when Michael woke up Gavin held up the note and said, “I get it, but I trust you.”

Michael brushed it off, but Gavin meant it at the time. Still might.

Gavin doesn’t want to think about what he might do to stop that gun from firing.

Michael moves at the last second, pressing himself up against the wall of the hallway, and Gavin doesn’t thank him out loud but he is humiliatingly grateful. It takes a lot for Michael to back down from a fight. Michael wouldn’t believe it if he told him, but Gavin knows how much it means, and he doesn’t take that lightly.

Gavin doesn’t look back as they walk through the hallway, mostly because he’s scared of what he’ll see in Michael’s expression if he does.

He chose. This is his choice.

They meet Meg, Ryan, and Jeremy outside by the front gate to the complex. This isn’t a blind eye for the camera, but the lens has been shot out so it doesn’t matter. Meg hugs him, smiling, and Gavin hugs her back. “Took you long enough,” he says into her hair.

She smacks him. “‘Hey Turney,’” she says, in a very poor imitation of his accent, “‘we’ve been snatched, please execute a rescue from the most high security detainment center in the city. Thanks!’ You’re the worst.”

“You did it, though, didn’t you?” Gavin checks over Jeremy and Ryan by rote, scanning for injury, but there’s none. They’re all fine.

“You look like you’re about to drop,” comments Ryan. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah,” says Gavin. He doesn’t move, though, instead glancing back at the compound. “Is everyone- uh. Did anyone-“

“We went non-lethal,” interrupts Jeremy gently. Too gently, maybe, but Gavin’s fucking tired, and he doesn’t care if this makes him look weak.

Meg loops an arm through his, leading him away. “You good?” she asks. Her eyes are on his face like searchlights.

Gavin clears his throat and lets her guide him. “Yeah,” he answers, once he finds his voice. They get in the waiting car and Gavin lolls his head against the window while Ellie peels away from the curb. “Yeah, fine.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Been toying around with the idea of a sequel, so if you'd be interested in that feel free to drop a comment and let me know! Or drop a comment anyway. It's up to you.
> 
> Find me on tumblr @teamokdynamite and twitter @poppyseedheart! 
> 
> Thanks for reading <3


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